


The Rictus

by bricksandbones



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Death Wish, Depression, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5994646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bricksandbones/pseuds/bricksandbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you want to know what 'smiling depression' feels like, read on. Not pleasant in any way, shape or form. AVOID if death triggers you. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rictus

It goes something like working 

a sixty-hour week and 

letting the adrenaline drown out the thoughts

of the things you can’t 

have.

 

It feels something like

typing with all your weight on your

elbows until your arms bruise and your fingers go

numb; wiping the 

condensation off your phone screen and trying

not to cover your entire bed in crumbs.

 

It looks a bit like wearing

lipstick to work with unwashed hair and the same

neon pink dress you wore 

the day before yesterday, the colour of your oxfords like

the blood staining the inside of your upper arm.

(No, you don’t even bother showering to try and wash it off.)

 

It’s holding back tears in the lab when Matchbox Twenty comes on,

tension headaches and sleepless nights and frown lines nobody has the

right to have at twenty-two (because what have you been through). It’s a constant

stifling weight like your blood is made of

lead and chest pains that make the doctors think you have a 

heart condition when you’re

fine.

 

Fine. 

 

It’s not being able to say ‘I’m sorry’ when people are dying, because

you’re not. Because

these soon-to-be corpses have what you 

want; because you can’t see 

death as anything but a panacea.

 

It’s slowly losing any iota of empathy you ever had

(and I didn’t start out with too much), because there is no mental

space left for anything except

function.

 

It’s forgetting years of your life. 

First on purpose, and then

you forget how to remember. 

You don’t take or look at photos any more;

it doesn’t matter.

 

It’s pretending to enjoy food only when you’re with other people, and secretly

subsisting on cheese and crackers, or other things you can make and eat

without getting out of bed.

 

It’s looking up lethal drug cocktails on the Internet,

wondering if one of your friends can hook you up with an

overdose (but he probably wouldn’t, because you’re a 

‘wee doll’, you goody-two-shoes). It’s reading blogs of

bereaved families to try and talk yourself out of it, and concluding

that everyone is just selfish.  

 

“Not too bad,” you’ll say. “I’m fine.”

 

I am fine. I am

fucking fabulous, I am flying

in this gilded birdcage trying to get

free, hurling myself against the bars.

I am bruised and sore. My bloodied

feathers carpet the floor.

 

I am

fine. One day my wings will break,

and so will my mind. It’s a 

win-win situation: the pretty bird in its cage with its

lifeless eyes. It’s given up on freedom because it 

knows. 

It’s as good as dead. It already has what it

wants, almost; all that’s left is

waiting, waiting till the end.

Death will come for you, carve up your little beating heart and serve it 

lukewarm on a silver platter. Oh, it’ll be

grim, it won’t be pretty, it’ll be everything

you ever wanted. The people will mistake your

smile for a rictus; you won’t even be around to

relish their discomfort. They will never comprehend

how much you didn't mind. 

 

 


End file.
